I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to leave my boots on the ferry. Not both boots, mind you. Just the left one, sitting there on the car deck like a lonely brown sock as we pulled away from the mainland and headed towards Averoy. My wife gave me that look she has perfected over fifteen years of marriage, the one that says "I love you, but honestly." The children found it hilarious, of course. Nothing quite like Dad's incompetence to kick off a family break in Norway.

The drive from Kristiansund had already been spectacular, all twisting coastal roads and sudden glimpses of the Atlantic beyond the rocky outcrops. We had crossed the famous Atlanterhavsveien, that extraordinary stretch of road that hops between islands like a stone skimming across water. I had insisted on stopping for photographs every five minutes, which the children tolerated with the weary patience of teenagers who would rather be anywhere else, and then suddenly were delighted to be exactly here.

Our cottage sat on Averoy with that particular Scandinavian modesty, neither showing off nor apologising for itself. White wooden cladding, a practical red roof, and windows that seemed to drink in the light differently than back home in Yorkshire. The key was in the lockbox exactly where promised, which felt almost suspiciously efficient. I fumbled with the code, naturally, while my youngest read the numbers out to me with increasing volume and decreasing patience.

Stepping inside, that first breath of a holiday cottage always tells you everything. This one smelled of pine, slightly of sea salt, and faintly of whatever the previous guests had cooked for their final breakfast. Clean, though. Properly clean, in that uncluttered Norwegian way where everything has its purpose and its place. The kitchen immediately announced itself as the heart of the place, all pale wood and sensible appliances, with a window above the sink that framed the water like a painting someone had thoughtfully hung for the washing-up person.

I wandered through with my single boot, making the soft thump-squeak rhythm of a man who has not yet admitted defeat. The living area had that wonderful hygge quality without trying too hard, a proper wood-burning stove ready stacked with birch logs, sofas that looked like they had absorbed decades of contented evenings. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple, bright, with those excellent thick duvets that make British bedding feel like a sad compromise.

The children had already vanished to explore, their voices carrying through the thin walls as they argued about who would have which room. My wife stood at the kitchen window, watching a small boat putter across the fjord, and I saw her shoulders drop that quarter-inch that meant she had actually stopped thinking about work emails.

I found my other boot eventually, though telling that story would require admitting I rang the ferry company and spoke to a very patient man named Erik who clearly thought I was a special kind of idiot. He had it waiting at the terminal, which is the sort of small-town kindness that makes you want to move somewhere permanently.

By evening, we had established our positions. My wife reading on the sofa, the children playing cards with suspicious intensity at the kitchen table, me attempting to light the wood burner with the confidence of a man who has watched several YouTube videos. The fire caught eventually, filling the room with that particular orange glow that makes conversation slow down and deepen.

We ate simple food, bread and cheese and something from a jar that the children pronounced weird and then finished. Through the window, the Norwegian evening stretched long and pale, that endless northern dusk that feels less like darkness falling and more like the day politely stepping back to give you some peace.

I sat there in my reunited boots, slightly ridiculous, thoroughly content, and thought about how these holidays work. Not through grand adventures or ticked-off sights, but through this accumulation of small moments. The wrong turn that becomes the story. The left boot that becomes the legend. The cottage that becomes, for a week, something like home, only better, because nobody has to vacuum it afterwards.

Tomorrow we might walk to the nearby shore, or simply not, and either would be perfectly acceptable. That is the particular magic of this sort of holiday, I am learning slowly. The permission to do very little, very happily, in a place that asks nothing of you but presence.

The fire crackled. My wife laughed at something the children said. Outside, Norway continued being quietly spectacular, and I sat there with both boots on, feeling something like peace.